


Out of darkness, Dawn

by Hedgehog_Patronus_pfmx2424



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Muggle World and Wizarding World, Multi, Post-Hogwarts, Self-Discovery, mental health
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 01:22:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17234759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hedgehog_Patronus_pfmx2424/pseuds/Hedgehog_Patronus_pfmx2424
Summary: Hermione has had a bit of a mental breakdown and was asked to leave school for awhile to recover, which means she's home with her parents in Muggle London trying to get back on her feet and figure out how to get back to her wizarding life. Along the way, she must confront her darkest demons-- her own nagging insecurities-- as well as questions of sexual identity, emerging adulthood-- most importantly, coming of age in a dangerous and uncertain pair of worlds that don't play well together.





	1. Meditation

_I arrive at the island, the little boat bumping gently against the rocks, and step out onto the long, smooth stones of the shore. I feel the sun-warmed surface smooth under my bare feet, rays of afternoon light a warm caress on my skin. Not knowing exactly where I am going, but without fear, I walk forward, a gentle curiosity propelling me easily forward. The stones give way to moss, interrupted here and there with little piles of stones from which spring soft, long grasses that wave in the gentle ocean breeze. Ahead I see trees, lush and dense and every possible shade of green. As I approach the forest’s edge, I notice a narrow path of packed brown earth. I take a step down the path, feeling the forest open to greet me, the warm, gently-yielding soil under the soles of my feet, and I breathe in the verdant scent of new leaves and fresh moss. Exhale gently, slowly, as I step softly down the path, feeling the breath enter my nostrils and exit in gentle sighs through my mouth as I tread over roots and small stones, noticing each new sensation as if for the first time. Leaves of many shapes and colors brush my skin as I pass, and light filters down through the layers of branches, casting cascading patterns which flicker and dance across the forest floor. I have walked for a while now, I don’t know quite how long, but I am completely relaxed. The path ends in a clearing, and the forest opens up to reveal the still waters of a secret pond. Through the soft green light I can see shallow stone steps leading from the bank into the water ahead. The air is warm here, and a soft mist is rising off the water’s untouched surface. I exhale, smiling. I have nowhere to be. Time has no relevance in this place. I am at home here._

I step in, so just my toes are under, the clear, cool water rippling in small caresses over my feet. I lift my dress up over my head and leave it, the softly folded cloth pooling at the water’s edge. I let down my hair, which rushes in soft waves around my shoulders like a cape, unclasp my bra and leave that, too. Secure in the knowledge that no one is here, that indeed in all the vast expanse of time no human has set foot in this place, I step out of my panties and leave them in the grass with the rest. I sigh, take another step, the soft lapping of the water at my shins the first true sound I have heard since coming here. I close my eyes, the low hum of the forest coming into the field of my attention, soothing me. Without sight, sensation takes over. I can feel the light, its pale warmth gentle on the surface of my skin. The soft breeze strokes my body, pushing the warm skin of my nipples into soft points, sending gentle waves of sensation down my spine, rippling awareness through my muscles and radiating out from my sternum, my collarbones reaching proudly forward. I feel powerful, radiant, the voluntary vulnerability of the moment singing the blood in my veins. I smile, spread my fingertips, feeling the energy zinging in my open palms. One more step further into the quiet pond, the tips of my fingers just graze the cool water’s surface. Eyes closed, I breathe in the energy of this place, reveling in the feeling of my naked skin, the warm, soft air, the mist around me, the clean coolness of the water. I scoop some up with wet fingers, trickling it over my lips and into my open mouth, swallowing. Refreshed. Eyes still closed, I push my damp fingers back through my hair, combing it from my upturned face. Suddenly he is there. Eyes closed, I can feel his presence. He comes to me, steps into the water behind me, and I know, without sight, that it is him. I feel his heat behind me, the tension in his body almost crackling, and with dry fingertips his palms skate across the skin of my ribs. I can hear his breath now, the insistent beckoning of his lungs, the accelerating pulse of his heart. His hands slip forward to my breasts, squeezing them in his strong fingers, pulling the back of my body against the front of his, and his heat now is overwhelming. His presence has stolen the calm from this place. His hand slips down, down, down the front of my body, and it is as though my torso is endlessly long. Seconds or hours pass as, lips now sucking at my neck, the hand slithers past my navel and curls down, down, further down across the broad bone of my hip, the other hand still kneading at my breast. I can feel his penis throb against me now, a thick, hot brand already dripping beads of molten moisture down the small of my back. His hand slides down, down, impossibly far down, down into the dark curls slickening despite my racing thoughts, combing them back to spread me wide, edging my feet apart with his knee to nudge at the warm, raw flesh of my exposed clitoris— and then a stab of pain, white lightening flashing through my brain, and my eyes widen of their own accord, looking down— and in the nightmarish red-green light I see, throat constricting in horror, that it’s not a hand that holds me but the head of a coiling snake, eyes red and glowing, jaws clamped around my screaming flesh. My breath catches in my throat— and then my voice remembers how to scream, but my vocal cords can’t move— he has me, I’m Petrified, his jaws locked between my thighs, the head burying deeper into my curls, the slender tongue pulling my raw clitoris from between my vulva and striking me, over and over again, an insistent whip that drives white-hot splinters through my core. Again and again the insistent tongue strikes, the pressure inside me building, until at last the slow, wanting ache inside me combusts. An awful fire crackles in my flesh and in my belly. Now I feel it; the hot poison from the bite spreads outward through my veins, burning comet-trails of venom up toward my heart, and I want to _move_ — must move, can’t move, the heat within me building until I burn with an awful radiance, sizzling and sparking and illuminating the water around me, and in the terrible red-green flickering I can see that hundreds of leeches are gliding toward me, their maggotlike white bodies pale and bloated against the green water, and, still unable to move, I know that I will die…

My eyes snap open, and one earbud falls out of my ear. Dammit. This guided meditation thing puts me to sleep every. Fucking. Time. I try to think back, remember when my mind stopped listening to the cues and went off the deep end of visualization, drifting from meditation into fantasy. Noticing this, my therapist says, is a valid step in itself. _Failure_ , my brain taunts me, the forbidden word a teasing echo across the yawning cavity of my now disgustingly empty brain. Flubbed it again. Where did I mentally fall of the fucking rails this time? Can’t remember, of course— my already-fuzzy memory made even duller by the sanity pills I crush into my morning yogurt. _Failure_. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Ok, hang on. Breathe a sec. I’m pretty worked up, right? _Yeah, so it seems_ , says the vague nancy-boy voice of my ego, talking back to what Dr. Elison calls my 'higher self' . And pretty turned on, if the wet-chafing feeling between my thighs is any indication. Why? I can’t even remember what the dream was, now, shards of imagery fragmenting, then splintering to indiscernible smithereens as I try to pick them apart in my mind’s eye. I was by myself, like the podcast-meditation lady was saying, in the forest, in the pond— then — oh.

He was there. I remember it now, not the images but the feelings, the hard heat behind me, yeah— the feelings. I feel the ghost of a warm ache behind my hipbones, and my body flares open below, slickening dumbly, clinging to the edges of the fantasy it still remembers in spite of my mind’s best efforts to shut it up. I slide the waistband of my shorts a little, trying to adjust the sensation away, but the seam slides along me and, absentmindedly now, I begin to work the fabric back and forth a little, rubbing it gently against the hood of my clit. Who in hell is this fantasy man who has the audacity to step into my dreams uninvited? I don’t even like him, I think, the slow tug-and-release along my vulva sending me higher, speeding up a little, trying to get the friction hot against me. I don’t like him, I think, sawing myself in two, and it’s not enough, apparently, because my fingers slip subconsciously down inside my shorts, my underwear, worrying my clit between my first two fingers. My subconscious is so weird, I think, passively now, but my right hand is headed south, too, two fingers licking gently inside of me, and now my body wants him to fuck me— no, not him, anyone but him, really— but who? My imagination searches, comes up empty, shuts down, oh god brain shut up— but it has to be someone, and-he’s-the-best-I’ve-got-so-my-imagination-will-take-it-because-I’m close now, edging forward, so I make believe that I need him to fuck me, whisper aloud for it, and he carries me up the stone steps and buries his head between my thighs for not-long-enough— can’t simulate that— and pulls me open with his fingers and thrusts his dick into me. My fingers ram in, too, stroking in and out of my vagina in real time, my head thrust back against the pillow, my brain kind of confused but my body bucking against my hands. I flick my clit with his/my fingers, mind circling as I fuck myself harder, a little faster, hoping the bed won’t squeak but-no-don’t-think-about-that-now-fuck- _faster_ — and I come hard, almost immediately embarrassed, and it’s like waking up yet again and it’s just me and my room and my stretched-out shorts and three fingers sticky with my own stale want. I need to get a better fantasy, I think. No wonder I’m broken— the literal man of my dreams, and I practically get annoyed— albeit horny— when he shows up.


	2. Failure

"Hermioneeee? Sweetie?" Mum knocks on the door. "Your therapist rang.Can you reschedule your Wednesday appointment? She said she’s sorry to call on a Saturday, but she had something come up and wanted to give you the notice." She pokes her head in, sees me amid the bunched-up sheets, smiles apologetically. "Sorry babes! Didn’t know you were sleeping— just give her a call sometime later, yeah?" Her head recedes behind the doorframe and she clicks the door gently shut, but I hear her sigh as she heads back down the hall.

I can’t blame her, honestly. Ever since I came home from Hogwarts mid-year with all my trunks and a letter detailing every cheek-flaming moment of my pre-exam mental breakdown, I’ve been a relatively useless grump. I don’t do dishes (not that I’ve been eating much either), leave soggy teabags and biscuit crumbs moldering on countertops, and generally walk around with my nose shoved in a book when I’m not getting randomly teary-eyed at inconvenient moments. She and my dad are at the clinic all the time anyway, so it isn’t as if they have to deal with me much, but I can feel myself just sort of hanging around like a toothache they can’t quite seem to fix, and —worse— I can feel them feeling it too. I miss everyone— Ron, Harry, Ginny, even Dumbledore and McGonagall, though I hate them for sending me home— but Hogwarts seems a world away from here. No, two worlds away— Dr. E said I’d be wise to 'give myself time' before even trying for re-admittance into Muggle college, which for all she knows is my highest personal goal. When I filled out my paperwork for her office, my goal of 'getting back to school' didn’t conjure up images of wands and castles and brain-dizzying incantations to be memorized, and it’s not like I can blame her for not understanding. But we’re in the middle of a war fought with weapons that are invisible, inaudible, and make nuclear warheads look like water balloons, and I’m sitting in a prefab house in a 'nice' suburb of Muggle London, filling trial prescriptions for Muggle pills, getting on my parents' nerves, and doing exactly nothing to help. I can’t practice magic, study for wizarding exams, or even keep up-to-date with wizarding news— anything magical, that is, anything of any relevance or importance to my life— is strictly off-limits. If a 'sense of purpose' is, as Dr. E said, key to recovery, I’m hardly going to get anywhere soon. I sigh, allowing the self-pity I’ve been trying not to feel for weeks and weeks now wash over me, just for a second, and survey the facts. Essentially, it’s this: I’ve dropped out of my life at a crucial moment because I literally fail at failure. Because of this, I am measuring my weeks in milligrams and mindfulness sessions while my best friends are literally risking their literal lives in perhaps the ultimate battle for the survival of our world as we know it. And why is this? Oh, yeah— because I couldn’t hack _grades._ _Failure,_ the nancy-boy voice says again, and I make a halfhearted attempt to shut it up while knowing, inwardly sinking a bit more, that it’s true. And the essential, godforsaken paradox is right here, the proof in the pudding of my stupid, stupid brain—I couldn’t handle the mere _thought_ of failure in the life I wanted, so I ejected myself from the pilot’s seat of the life I had and panic-beamed myself back to the novocaine numbness of Muggle London. For fuck’s sake, not _again_ , my brain says, but my body does it for me and I bite back the inevitable stinging tears, as though my mouth could stop my eyes from doing their thing yet again. This is going to to be an absolutely shit summer, I think, closing my eyes again to the sound of rain tapping on the window.


End file.
